


skyline to

by 92bunny



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dirty Talk, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, Italy, Mania, Mental Instability, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Smut, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27862866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/92bunny/pseuds/92bunny
Summary: You don’t do relationships, prolonged touches outside of sex remind you too much of the past. Commitment is fickle and monogamy is a broken ideal. So when Timothée suggested casual sex between the two of you, everything just clicked.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Reader, Timothée Chalamet/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This fic will hint at past trauma, but is never stated explicitly. You know and I know and anyone with two eyes knows the MC has trauma doesn't mean we have to talk about it. If a chapter has anything too heavy I'll give a warning before hand.
> 
> This isn't about someone "stable" saving someone going off the deep end. Mental illnesses can be manageable doesn't mean their linear in how they are managed. Happy ending, fucking and lighthearted moments inbound.
> 
> The title is "Skyline To" by Frank Ocean

You’re his latest obsession and surprisingly enough, it doesn’t scare you.

You don’t do relationships, prolonged touches outside of sex remind you too much of the past. Commitment is fickle and monogamy is a broken ideal. So when Timothée suggested casual sex between the two of you, everything just clicked. It was about time the tension between you was challenged. The rules were simple, no feelings, cuddling, or kissing. He needed them more than you did, the 24-year-old heartthrob was no expert when it comes to matters of the heart. As an established artist, you didn’t have time to keep falling into situationships.

They all usually start like this. You meet a guy. He’s charming, gorgeous even. You make it apparent that you travel often and that being tied down isn’t in your best interest. The boy - yes boy because there are scarcely any men- thinks he can play the nonchalance game better than you. Spoiler: they don’t. Then you become the heinous bitch in the story they can use to break hearts in retaliation that did them dirty, just because they couldn’t read the fine print.

The thing about the casual sex is, it hasn’t exactly started yet. Timothée’s got a week left in some indie film press tour while you do your usual break away from Hollywood. Too much of it leaves your insides feeling as rubbery as the people. Artificiality doesn’t suit you well. You’ve got a no bullshit attitude and try your best to keep to yourself and the friends you made along the way. Family is nonexistent so you’ve made your own.

The obsession isn’t hard to miss. Usually, you hate sleeping with people that think of you highly because of your music. They hold you to this high pedestal because they used your experiences as a refuge whenever they felt down. It’s something personal to you that doesn’t get written unless you are at all-time lows or highs. He was surprised you even said yes to this whole thing, the humble guy he is. The moment you agreed, a ticket to Italy and a beach resort stationed in Amalfi had your names written all over it.

You’ll never admit it if he asks, but his excitement to spend time with you is kind of heartwarming. It’s that time of the year where everyone has someone they love around the corner. The sun goes away earlier and the weather drops a degree or two more every day. Seasonal depression lurks around the corner as if you don’t have the regular version of it to worry about.

Speaking of depression, you remembered where you were. It was Thursday and on Thursdays, you met with a shrink. (He hated being called that.) The walls are painted with a pastel blue that almost reached the borderline close to tacky. The windows were open and the warmth of the sun rays balanced between the iciness of the AC helped you relax into the couch. Hung up are decorated with abstract paintings and encouraging posters and tips on breathing and centering your emotions. Your favorite had to be simple, “So you’re gay. And?”

“I think you're just as excited as him.” Mark, your therapist, says. Sometimes, Mark gets these outlandish ideas. He thinks because he has a Ph.D., a gorgeous family, and a septum ring you have to accept whatever nonsense he concocts up. Usually, you try to get around his baseless conclusions, but this is the last time you’ll see him before your trip. Mark is the only man you allow to be in your life and your pretty sure it’s because he’s gay.

“And why is that?” You ask. Cue his creepy smile.

“The trip is a week from now and you're already packed. The last guy couldn’t even get you to leave your apartment,” You make a noise to interrupt, but Mark continues, “You’ve been texting him every day since you’ve established that you’re going to fuck. You don’t even text me back and I’m like your only friend.”

“Isn’t it unethical to be friends with your clients? A breach of some kind of therapist-patient contract?” You sputter, the accusations not sitting well with your brain. There was no way you were falling for someone you hadn’t even slept with yet. You had your eyes on the prize, Timothée’s dick that is. You would think being a celebrity made it easy to get laid, but quite the opposite. This is what you deserved with the long years you’ve had.

A sigh from Mark, “Deflecting means we’re going nowhere with this conversation. Remember to see the receptionist about the prescription change and please have fun. Lots of fun. I need full details or else.”

You mirror his sigh, but yours with relief that this conversation was over with. One person ruined your idea of romance and you didn’t have the effort to build it back up. If Timothée even dared to press for something outside the realm of sexual, you’d be on the quickest flight back to New York. Ghosting was your go to and just because he was a nice guy didn’t mean he couldn’t be one of your victims.

Mark and you exchange parting words and you’re off to see the receptionist. It was a pain in the ass changing prescriptions. Among the many stubborn things you do, Mark advised against trying a new prescription and having company. You didn’t know how it would affect you and whether or not you’d have a similar incident to the one you had a year before. You were manic for almost three months straight if your influx of Instagram posts were anything to go by. It felt like you were on top of the world, so when you crashed he was close to filing a missing person report for how long you disappeared.

You had one goal for this vacation and that was to have fun, your therapists’ cautionary words set aside.

-

When Timothée mentioned that he got you both tickets, you assumed they were separate commercial flights to maintain secrecy. Instead, you're guided to a private plane. You refuse to visibly swoon at the gesture. Your brain does it for you instead. _What are the odds a guy uses his own hard owned jet to take you_ \- No. The pilot takes your hand in his and shakes with such vigor that you're sure his happiness might climb its way into your system. “Mr. Chalamet wanted me to ensure that you are in safe hands. The flight attendant will be here to suit every want and need you may have.” He follows this with a wink.

You're unsure whether you should feel flattered or creeped out.

“Mr. Chalamet, huh?” You grin once you see him. He’s wearing a simple grey jacket with matching sweatpants subtle to the fashionably impaired eye. Paparazzi photos of him usually include a pair of headphones with this outfit. You’ve been in the business long enough to know what he’s wearing cost way more than it looks. You take a seat opposite of him, reclining it as far back until you’re comfortable.

The private plane wasn’t as extravagant as you thought it’d be. It looked like it was recently purchased and lacked some of the furniture planes of this grandeur had previously. A half-shut room door lets you get a glimpse of a king-sized bed. Your goal for this eight-hour flight was to end up with your back flat on it.

Timothée sheepishly puts a hand to his neck. “I asked him not to call me that,” A laugh, “It’s so supercilious like I’m this Richard Gere stereotype. When the truth is I wouldn’t even be able to audition for Pretty Woman.”

“I could definitely be Julia Roberts.”

“Yeah, if you could act.” He snorts, which pulls a laugh from you. Memories of the movie you featured in to give it a little bit of popularity resurface. You recorded music videos here and there but still couldn’t get over how actors didn’t stare into the camera. That resulted in a lot of memes of you staring into the camera all The Office-like. Thank whatever higher power there was you had the whole troubled musician thing going on to save you from the grasps of poverty because the acting was surely not it.

The flight attendant comes around with wine glasses full of what looks like Sangria. He probably had good intentions suggesting the drink, but all your mind could focus on was that red wine was most definitely an aphrodisiac. Were you the type of person to let your genitals control your train of thought?

“Someone’s trying to get me tipsy.” You tease, taking a sip of the fruity drink.

“If you don’t want to drink you don’t have to. We can be sober for…” Timothée trails off, hinting towards a word you were both old enough to say. Your eyes meet.

“The sex we’re about to have?” You finish his sentence for him, courteous as ever.

“When you say it like that it makes it seem like that’s all we’re going to do.”

“Would it matter if that’s all we were going to do?”

Timothée takes a silence inducing, long chug of the rest of his drink, then puts it aside. He shrugs at your question feigning disinterest. As long as he understood what you were here for what happened after wouldn’t be your problem. It _isn’t_ your problem. The only problem was how far he was looking as good as he did at this hour. The tousled curl look suited him.

You decide to tease even further, “ I mean, you’ve got to be itching for it.” That piques his interest again.

“Itching for?” You wonder if it’s a nervous tic to play with his rings.

“To be with me, silly. The quick texts back, your excitement to see me. The overbearingness of the pilot’s crew. You really want me to have a good time, huh?”

“I want you to let me,” Timothée’s back to maintaining eye contact with you, “Give you a good time that is. You deserve it.” He cuts himself off. You’re smart enough not to ask about whatever else he has to say. You're not sure your brain could handle it. (He can’t see how terrible you’ve felt on the inside, right?)

The only thing that makes sense to do right now, is to get on your knees.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blowjobs! Timmy pov-ish

Timothée’s humbleness from the outside eye could be deemed as a weakness, but he doesn’t see that as a bad thing. He liked to sit back and appreciate every little thing that was given or done for him. Presents from friends and family alike were glued into scrapbooks and pictures laminated into journals. He admired creatives in how they communicated their feelings through the arts. He especially loves your music. 

He’s been following your career ever since you broke out. (He definitely has a playlist with just your music on it.) You have this mysteriously troubled musician persona that just pulls the public in. It was an enigma watching you on a stage. If there was one thing you valued it was privacy. Rumors of Non-disclosure agreements being given out to anyone that threatened to ruin your peace. So when you agreed to come on this trip with him, he was shocked. Timothée was aware of his heartthrob presence and with the paparazzi on his tail, it was comforting to know that you trusted him enough to organize this.

Conversations of separating music from an artist are highly controversial, but he saw you in every tune, in every lyric you wrote. To him, you held more mastery in your craft than celebrities that had been in the business longer. 

Actors didn’t frequent attending music award shows, but when you were nominated for a Grammy he made it his business to attend. _God_. He remembers when you won. Your face lit up with a smile that took his breath away and was filled with joy he yearns to see again. From anyone on the outside looking in it would look like he was idolizing you. He admired what you did, but when he attempted to get your number that night was when he cemented his crush for you. 

(“Please try your hardest not to fuck up one of my favorite books.” You teased. Rumors of him starring in Dune circulated around the time. He remembered going up to you at the Grammy after-party to congratulate you and somehow landed himself in a conversation. Not that he minded of course. 

“Now, how could I do that with you watching?” He countered. It wasn’t often that someone could keep up a steady banter with you. In Hollywood, at times it felt like you were the smartest person there. Joke with the wrong celebrity and TMZ would prepare ways they could destroy your character. Timothée noted that the people around you were two people, Isme a runway model, and your assistant Lydia. You weren’t the type to mingle with other celebrities unless needed for award shows or collaborations. For someone among the rich, you tended to separate yourself from them as much as you could. 

You grinned at his response, “So what was the game plan walking over here?” 

He revered the way you didn’t care to speak your mind, “The plan?” He repeated, nervous. He isn’t sure what gave away that you came here with something in mind, but he hoped it didn’t put you off in any way. 

“Congratulate me, share a few laughs, and leave? Surely there was more to it.” You continued, trailing off to let him explain himself.

And _okay_. He is twenty fucking four so the prospect of asking someone’s number isn’t new to him. Timothée has asked enough numbers and depending on who you ask did some damage to New York University, but laying out the idea to do it versus executing it are two different things. You're intimidating in a way that isn’t physically threatening. He’s pretty sure your table has all eyes on him now with how few people there are. 

Being that he is as graceful as he is handsome he says, “You should probably give me your number.”

And to that, you laugh. It isn’t a laugh of rejection but at his mock confidence. It’s a laugh nonetheless and he wants to find the nearest bathroom and lock himself in it for even trying. He’s pretty sure you're crying now. 

“You’re cute.” You say after wiping away a stray tear, “If you want my number you should probably find it then.”

 _Well, that wasn’t a no._ “Find it?” 

“Do you always answer with a question? Yes, find it. Now get to it Chalamet.”)

In the end, after texting countless people in the industry he probably shared small talk with once, Selena ended up being the one with your number. 

Timothée isn’t quite sure how that turned into this. He’s gotten lucky one too many times. You’re on your knees in front of him with a glint in your eye that is seductive enough to make his pants tighten. He shifts in his seat at the uncomfortableness. The eye contact between the two of you is intense and a random person would have been forced to look away. He likes to think that the sexual tension between the two of you will be well worth it. 

“You clean?” Is the first thing you say.

“I read somewhere that saying the words clean or dirty creates a negative connotation towards sexual diseases when they’re actually common. I’m negative if that’s what you're asking.” 

“Are you trying to be woke with my hand on your dick?” He looks down to find a dainty hand fitted over the bulge in his pants. 

_That’s a new adjustment_. You have a concentrated look on your face with a finger tugging the hem of his sweatpants and rules be damned, Timothée really wants to kiss you right now. He’s never slept with someone he hasn’t kissed before so he isn’t sure what to do right now. He trusted you with the rules to this, afraid to overstep any of your boundaries. You were closed off to people for a reason and he didn’t want to give you another one. 

You grin mischievously as you work to open his pants, _slowly_. Grey sweats pool at his ankles as he peeks around your seat to check if the flight attendant is gone. When the coast is clear he assists, lifting his hips off the seat to shimmy his boxers off as well. He can’t help the groan of relief he lets out at the gesture. 

The first thought that comes to mind when you see it is that it’s _pretty_. Turns out you weren’t completely ruined by all the unsolicited dick pics sent to you in your teenage years. The tip was coated with precum, flushed, and hard. You realize grudgingly you must really like Timothée because the sight is enough to make your mouth water in anticipation. Your eyes meet before you evidently spit on his dick.

Timothée’s finally come to a conclusion about this arrangement and it’s that he thinks he might _die_.

The pilot begins to give the standard protocol speech before takeoff and Timothée isn’t sure exactly what the absolute fuck he’s saying because you’ve now taken the length of him into your mouth, sucking greedily all the way down. The sound is wet, nasty, but you keep your eyes on him innocently. He is sure that this is the messiest blowjob he’s ever received and that detail coincides with why it’s his best. You reach a steady tempo and he resists the urge to buck his hips into the wet heat out of respect to your craft. 

You're a tease that kitten licks his tip, swirling around the slit. You don’t stop the assault on the most sensitive part until he begs with a guttural, “ _Please_.” 

You don’t know what you love more. The way he’s fighting to sit still or the breathy moans that seem to be pulled out of him with reach bob of your head, each suck. There’s spit dripping down your chin due to your efforts.

“Fuck, you’re so good at this.” He groans and your heart flutters at the praise.

You moan around him, peering through wet lashes to watch him sitting there, eyes shut, mouth open in pure bliss. The image motivates you to pull off of him with a wet pop, lips now attached to his balls. A hand flies 

Timothée squirms at the sensitivity, “I’m going to-”

  
“Cum on my face, please.” Your voice laced with desperation you didn’t know you had until now. 

Ever the obedient lover, that’s what does it for him. Timothée tenses up and spills seemingly, all over your face. Your face is warm and sticky and you don’t restrain the dopey smile you have at watching him catch his breath. His lips are a deeper shade of pink and you realize he must’ve bitten his lip at his peak to keep quiet. 

You were keeping a mental scoreboard, so it was safe to say that you were winning.

“You look really cute like that,” Timothée remarks, fixing his pants.

“It’s a new look for me.”

He laughs, digging in the bag on the ground next to him for napkins and gestures for you to come closer. You scooch forward and he gently wipes away the remnants of what went on. The silence between the two of you is comforting. You look towards the window and realize that you’re in the sky now. 

You look back at him and the napkin is long gone, but Timothée’s touch lingers. With his thumb against your lips, this is the part where you two kiss. No one moves to commit the first infraction against the rules you set up. It’s vulnerable, you decide, being perceived in this manner. He hasn’t even seen you naked yet and the intensity is enough for you to pull away.

“I’m gonna take a nap. I was up all night overpacking.” A yawn, “You gonna stay here?” You’ve never slept in a bed on a plane before and you weren’t going to let the opportunity pass you up.

Timothée makes a sound in agreement and hums as if he’s trying to figure out what to say. “No one ever spits on my...” He trails off and you grin. 

“Aw, don’t tell me I unlocked a new kink in you.” You tease, to which Timothée pulls the drawstrings of his hoodie

“Trust me, I’ll return the favor in Amalfi.” 

“Uh-huh. _Please_.” You mock his request from earlier and for someone who was jello only moments ago he chucks his neck pillow at your rear hard as you make a break for the room. 

He waits until he hears the door click shut, and the overthinking starts. 


End file.
